They
by Reminscees
Summary: America wants to ask England what they are. Set in WW2. ONE SHOT


The hanger, or whatever the hell you call that place where airplanes fly out, was somewhat magical for America. The skies belong to him, endless and free. England didn't quite feel the same, he knew that, and felt that, as they walked out together, side by side, ready to fly out to France to have some God forsaken meeting-conference-secret-thing. America knew of course, he wasn't stupid, contrary to popular opinion. But he didn't really seem to understand this whole business, of wars and of what they meant to nations. He was still young. He knew that. A colonial upstart. So he felt confused, uneasy, and definitely worried about what will happen after the war. They, England and he, weren't exactly friends with most of Europe anymore. Russia and China were odd too, and France was, well, France. But England and he were friends, or something like that. They were a _they_. They danced together a while ago, and talk a lot, and maybe they were dating or not? He kissed his cheek quite a lot and crap. Romance wasn't really America's thing, or England's. But still. It was, they were... A thing. He hopes. But that was enough for America to blush and smile as they reached the plane, his head still spurring with thoughts of what to say and what to do.

"Hey, England?"

"Yes?"

They stopped walking at looked at each other, America bouncing on the balls of his feet and England shifting the papers of maps and strategies in his hands.

"Look, I- I guess what I mean is- I know that, well, you aren't as powerful as I am-"

"Charming.", he replied, in one tone, sounding hurt, but not offended. It was true. And England was always the kind of person who you had to tell the truth to, otherwise they will skin you alive because he knows when you lie.

"Let me finish. We're- England, what are we friends? Or- or more?" He ended awkwardly and blushed. He knew he shouldn't say anything more, but he did. "Cause I want us to be more. You know, like more than allies or friends, like actual..." He trailed off. He didn't know the word to describe them.

England blushed too, and turned his head down a little, trying to hide his smile. America noticed it, though, and he was glad only he noticed those little smiles that England shows.

"I- I don't know. But I think that we're a _we._ If you understand what I'm saying, you with your vocabulary of 25 words." He had to always offend him, America knew that, otherwise England wouldn't be England. But still, he sounded as though it made him unexpectedly happy to hear America stutter those badly phrased words.

"I'd, yeah, I'd like that. A lot." He smiled a private small smile, similar to England's. A smile meant only for each other. He grabbed his hand in his, and they stayed like that for a couple of seconds.

"Does that mean I can kiss you when I want? And also do- do other things? Cause I want to take you dancing, I know this place in London and also in Paris there's this restaurant-" He was babbling, but he was so happy that his chest felt like it was two sizes too small and it was awful but wonderful and it was like all of those romantic songs and films, so like Hollywood. So unlike the life they now led, in war.

"I- I wouldn't mind. But not in public, it's disgraceful.", England said, the first part still blushing and quite, the second part louder and more like the England he knew.

And also loved. Of course he loved all of England. England when he was beaten up and broke in a POW camp. England when he punched the Nazi spy that America captured in that top secret space thing in D.C. England when they went to Italy and got captured in that puny jail thing Italy made, hoping they would stay until Germany arrived, where America freaked out but England kicked down the bars using those strong, lean, wonderful legs. Just all of England. England when he was beaten down by the Blitz, waking up every night and crying, when he could hear him every night, and went inside to hold him and caress him, but England shook him off and it took a hell of a lot of trouble getting him to stop hurting him to that America, the hero, could just try and help him.

"We- We should get flying. You're my wingman, after all."

"Only because I sail better than you, I've climbed crow's nests in storms that would make you sick." He said, without any venom, but smirking that unbelievably sexy smile. God damn.

"Old man."

"Little rat."

And then America pulled him in for a hug, and England actually hugged him back, and when they slowly pulled away, he stood on his toes to give America a little kiss on the cheek, smiling. America felt like he was about to faint. England didn't seem to care and walked off to get into his plane.

America would never forget that moment.


End file.
